


So every Holmes found his Watson

by the_consulting_linguist (xASx)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: 2018 advent ficlet challenge, Angst with a Happy Ending, Background Mystrade, Bisexual John Watson, Christmas, Christmas Fluff, Christmas Presents, Contains 3 separate stories, Crack, Declarations Of Love, First Kiss, Fluff, Gay Sherlock Holmes, M/M, Misunderstandings, Mutual Pining, Not Canon Compliant, Parentlock, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Scars, Well crack-ish, happy endings, if you are pro mary maybe the third story is not for you, post s3 fix it, post trf fix it, s1 fix it, these two idiots
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-01
Updated: 2018-12-27
Packaged: 2019-09-05 07:27:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 24
Words: 18,167
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16806154
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xASx/pseuds/the_consulting_linguist
Summary: This is my entry for the 2018 Advent Ficlet Challenge!It comprises of 3 separate stories (8 prompts for each, updating in turns):The case of the Christmas saboteur (S1 crackish, light, fluffy fix-it of sorts)My love, he comes to me at night (post-TRF fix it, angsty)Little Swallow (post HLV, not canon compliant, developing parentlock and SH/JW relationship).You can read only the story/stories you want or all of them -hopefully there's something here for everyone! Also, we all deserve some joy for the holidays, and all three were written in this spirit (spoiler, they all have happy endings!) Updating daily. I will be updating the tags with every chapter if needed.Hope you enjoy, and happy holidays!





	1. Holiday Décor

**The case of the Christmas saboteur -pt. 1/8**

***

Sherlock eyed John like a cat ready to pounce on a mouse toy. From his vantage point on the couch he could observe as the other man returned from the hall’s cupboards to the desk, piling another plastic bag of abhorrent decorations onto a waiting assortment of more baubles and lights and tinsel.

“Why are we doing this, John?”, he bemoaned, flopping to his back as John emptied the new bag onto the annoyingly bright-coloured and noisy trinkets.

“Because it’s what people do at Christmas, Sherlock”, he chirped, not at all fazed by the continuation of that night’s Sulk.

“Well, I don’t”

John cast him The look over his shoulder, the look he gave him when he was being particularly impossible in a crime scene. “Everyone has to start somewhere”, he shrugged, almost cheery, as he disentangled a cartoonish-looking Santa Claus bauble from a grotesque reindeer one.

“Where did you even find all that?”

“It’s Mrs. Hudson’s old and spare ones. She said she would not mind seeing them being used, once”

“They’re hideous”

“And you’re being childish. Have your mood alone, I want to decorate in peace”

“You mean you are going to play those unnerving Christmas pop hits on your laptop, aren’t you?”

“Yep. And there is nothing you can do to stop me”, John grinned, testing a string of fairy lights for any broken ones.

Sherlock’s eyes glinted at the opportunity. “Actually. I can” He sprang to his feet and whisked John’s laptop away, balancing it on a forearm while typing John’s password with his free hand.

“What are you-”

“Changing your password, of course”

“No, no you don’t, Sherlock!”

“Nothing on here I have not seen before John”, nose scrunching up with distaste at the flashes of memories from nauseating porn sites and ridiculously flowery emails to girlfriends, he closed all internet explorer tabs and clicked on ‘Settings’. John’s expression had turned to one of absolute horror.

“Alright, enough, you git, give that back”, with the grunt John grabbed his arm, and tried to snatch the laptop away from him, using all his weight to throw Sherlock’s body off balance. “Quit it, Sherlock, I need this!”

John manhandled him to the couch, and as Sherlock’s knees folded at the contact, making him sit abruptly, he pulled the laptop out of his arms and closed it. “Why did you do that?”, John panted. He was still standing above him, leaning close because he too had lost his balance, an arm braced against the back of the couch, his eyes turning a deeper, velvety colour the more Sherlock looked into them.

Then the longer he looked the more his start started to go. Again.

“Hey, you alright?” John’s voice woke him from his non-verbal haze. He was smiling.

“I… Yes. Yes of course”

“Yeah? Okay”, John licked his lips. He pushed against the back of the couch to straighten up, just barely missing a soft brush against Sherlock’s shoulder.

“No Christmas songs. Got it. But will you help me?”

Sherlock’s stomach was doing weird things, weird things with frightening, flesh-eating butterflies. “Nno”

“Alright, suit yourself”, John shrugged.

Sherlock did a double take, wondering, as tingly fingers tried to rearrange his dressing gown tighter about him, whether what had tinged John’s voice just so could be disappointment.


	2. Star

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the post-TRF fix it story. Tried a different style, for once.

**My love, he comes to me at night pt. 1/8**

***

_December 1 st_

He was draped over the ledge of a terrace, cigarette dangling from the edge of his lips. Half-burned only. Hastily rolled. Coat spilling form him over the ledge toward the void, flapping in the wind like a lazy ray’s wing. Dark brow furrowed, he would watch the neon lights of the sign fireflies chirp away through the night, take in the traffic in the streets, cars buzzing and humming and growling by like heavy-gaited bugs.

The Detective was bored. As he always used to be when the Soldier knew him. Long, pale fingers tapping against the concrete, a code that only he knew, as he waited, like a cat on the prowl, for a new puzzle to show itself. Or he would be deep in thought, working on a new problem, invisible red threads of thoughts crisscrossing the maze of his mind. Lean legs crossed at the ankle, or maybe bent at the knee, sharp and precise and elegant. He was not cold. Somehow, he was never cold; no temperature low enough to antagonise the milky paleness of his skin. He thought of this, of how his Soldier always nagged him for being so careless, and so stubborn, and a smile of fond remembrance bloomed onto his lips, their ample pink pale now too, under the moonlight.

It was a starry night, a lonely night, those made for lonely people. The Detective’s eyes mirrored the constellations, overhead, an inky pool of diamonds. They were beautiful stars, on a beautiful sky, clear as a promise. He had said once he did not care for the domed, twinkling expanse overhead, but that had been just another lie. Of all lonely people, he was the loneliest that night; missing and aching and longing, until his sorrow was bitter, thick as tar on the back of his throat.

The Detective had told many lies, many lies he wished he could take back. Lies about his heart, lies about his mind. And a lie about his death. This lie in particular was what had brought him here, but it would not be the one that would take him back. That would have to be the truth. The only truth, eliminated and refined.

It was that truth that had him miserable with sadness, made him feel like a man alone at sea. He wondered what could be, what could have been, and the more he pondered the more he wished he could tear through the purple sky and make this torture end.

For there were two eyes on the other end of this infinity, looking up just as his did. It was not logical to think he knew, but the intuition refused to leave him all the same; a pair of indigo, deep-sea eyes were looking at the trillions of stars right then, right then when he was. And from all the trillions of stars, they’d settle on the one he was looking at, and they would smile. Smile and wish now, now was the time that the Detective would come home.

He threw away the cigarette, clasped his coat around him like a cloak. _Just one more mission_ , he whispered to the wind, his eyes closing with the weight of it. Just one more battle left to fight, and he’d be home to see him. He’d be home to make things right.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading. Comments and kudos/bookmarks etc are much appreciated.


	3. You better watch out

**Little Swallow - pt 1/8**

***

20th December

**She’s finally asleep**

And by finally, I mean finally. It took three hours to figure out what she wanted. Three hours of wailing. I think we must have woken half of Baker Street up. Mrs Hudson was definitely not amused.

If you have or have ever had a 9-month-old, you know how it is. Establishing a sleep schedule is a nightmare. It was worse before we moved in (that is a discussion for another blog post), but even now she still has not found her footing. I do not know if it is the new place, or the new circumstances that are affecting her. But what happened today has not happened before.

First of all, I have written excessively in the past about how Sherlock detests Christmas. It is not simple to convey just how much The Sherlock Holmes abhors this holiday. I could say as much as the Grinch, but double, triple the sentiment, even. In his words, it is nothing “but two months of Hell”. Yes, he includes November, because that is when the preparations for the Christmas festivities begin. I’ll admit it does get, in his words, “tedious”, when you have listened to “Last Christmas” for the tenth time in three days. But moving on. 

As the day draws nearer and nearer, it’s no wonder that he’s getting grumpier and grumpier. Does not help a lot that the flat is decorated (blame Mrs. Hudson), and festive (blame Mrs. Hudson). And that his experiments and equipment have been pushed to one-third, rather than half of the kitchen, because of the space Rosie’s things are taking up.

So, you can imagine his face when, tonight, as he was trying to finish a new experiment on the rate of bacteria reproduction (ask him for the details, if you must. I tried), Rosie’s wails pierced the silence through the monitor. And she went on to keep up this incredible level of noise for the next three hours. I am really surprised Sherlock did not evacuate the flat like a man a burning building. But that is what I want to talk about.

At two hours, I had tried everything from feeding to changing to walking her up and down the corridor 275 times (yes, I counted). She was inconsolable, and it was starting to affect me, too. I was failing. Simply failing. Sherlock approached us then, with no warning, and instead of berating me or simply stating his annoyance, said we should try music.

Three words: he was right. But if that is a rather obvious conclusion in itself, the next part isn’t.

We put her in her cot and tried everything, from Mozart to Disney songs to pop hits. Nothing. The only thing that calmed her down was, believe it or not, bloody “Santa Claus is coming to town”. The child version, all jingle bells and synth. And the great Sherlock Holmes sat there with me, for one hour as the same, stupid little tune played over and over, just to make sure that she was fast asleep, at last.

Do you think a child was the secret to his taming after all? Or is it too late and I am so tired I don’t even know what the heck I am typing?

💬 **5 Comments**

I am glad you have finally found something that helps her. As for Sherlock, I am sure he will pester you about it.  
Molly Hooper 20 December 01:25

  
Interesting new adventure, mate. Nothing like your old ones! Do you need a pint for tomorrow already? Haven’t seen you in a while.  
Mike Stamford 20 December 07:35

Yeah, I know. Sorry, I have just been busy, haven’t updated much, with everything that happened and all. I will text you about the pint.  
John H. Watson 20 December 08:25

  
The taming of the shrew, much? Can’t believe how you’re managing a baby and *THE* baby, honestly.  
Harry Watson 20 December 09:41

I’m just hoping the trick will work tonight too, dear. But I am sure Sherlock won’t be happy about it.  
Mrs Hudson 20 December 10:18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading. Comments, bookmarks, kudos, are all much appreciated.


	4. Snowman

**The case of the Christmas saboteur pt. 2/8**

*******

“John, get him out of here”, Lestrade groaned, and pressed both palms against his face.

“It’s the 21st of December, Gavin!”, Sherlock fumed, towering above the Detective Inspector as the man had sank in his chair. “It is impossible that the criminal classes are idle”

“Sherlock, trust me, we _all_ need a holiday”

Dull, Sherlock’s brain trilled. Dull, dull, _dull!_ No peace from the lights, the music, the presents, and now no crimes. At the state his brain was in, he would accept everything -hell, even a four would do!

“I will let you know the minute I have something, alright?”, Lestrade was saying, and already his attention had been won over by a heap of stupid paperwork.

The ground swayed beneath Sherlock’s feet. “No”, he growled. “No, no, no, no, no. I _need_ a case! I need a case, and I need it now, Gavin!”

“John…”

“Yup, I’m on it, I’m on it”

And there was a warm, steadying palm on the small of his back, steering him away from Lestrade’s office and back to the corridor, where officers from any and all the ranks were hurrying about in chaos, like flies over milk.

“It’s alright, Sherlock. There will be a case, yeah? Everything is just hectic for the holidays. That’s all”

The voice was languid to flow, like honey. It got under his skin, numbed the spikes of his frustration. “But, John-”, he pouted, eyes locked onto the ‘unsolved’ case files, visible through the door, on Lestrade’s desk.

“If we leave them at peace, they may be nicer and give us one sooner, alright?”, John got in his field of vision, catching his gaze with his own.

Alright. He may be giving in tonight, but he _would_ put up a fight tomorrow. And not even John will stop him.

“We can order in”, that treacherous voice again, baiting him with promises. “And watch anything you like. Anything at all” Sherlock realised that John’s hand was still on the small of his back, and pushed to usher him towards the exit. He wanted to stall then, and his brain was emptied of cases, and Gavins and dull Christmases. He only wanted to feel John use a little more pressure to keep him going…

“Hey, what is the freak doing here?” Donovan’s voice, high with incredulity, broke through Sherlock’s thoughts like a hiss of static. She was gathered around her desk with the handful of officers under her command, and now they all turned their attention to him, like a murder of crows.

“Who wants to deal with murder on Christmas?”, a rookie chuckled. “Just… Leave it”, one of them groaned. “He’s as cold and dead as a snowman this one”, another added.

“You need to keep an eye on him, John. Don’t want him shooting anyone just because there are no other crimes for him to solve”. Donovan scoffed, an eyebrow cocked over her smirk. She eyed them both up and down as if questioning them with regards to what precautions John was taking.

“Don’t make me solve yours”, Sherlock hissed through his teeth.

“Better stay at home if you don’t like Christmas”, Donovan, unperturbed, added in mocking sing-song. “You know, do something nice for the rest of us”

It stung, like the sharp bite of the bee that is never expected. He wavered, only for a moment, his mind was whirring for an answer. But John’s voice, even though barely more than a whisper, was faster. And made the fine hair on the nape of Sherlock’s neck stand on end: “Donovan, if you do not shut up right _now_ I will help him. And believe me, you will not like it”

And as the shocked Officer was looking on, John wrapped his arm around Sherlock’s waist and strutted to the door. A million bees stung Sherlock’s chest this time, their touch a prickle of heat, and light.


	5. Believe

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Mention of PTSD-related depression*

**My love, he comes to me at night pt. 2/8**

*******

_December 17th_

It almost cost his life. The Detective was numb with pain, lying on a cold hospital bed, watching as the saline bag attached to his IV dripped slowly, hourglass-like, into the plastic tube leading to his arm.

Things had not gone according to plan. The ambush had failed, there had been a mole, a traitor. They discovered him and threw him in a cell of stone underground, a cavern of space, as what is left behind when one’s eye is no longer in its socket. They bound his hands and stripped him bare, interrogated him day and night, ever prowling about him like vultures. His shoulders became dislocated, his body emaciated with starvation. He gave them no answers, and for every such act of denial and pride, he earned a new lash.

They were what ached now, the zigzag pattern on his back. Bandaged up and stitched, it looked uglier than he thought, and felt even uglier than it looked. Not as ugly as the delay. He would not make it to England on time, if he made it to England at all. The doctors had not yet cleared him. His brother refused to give him the permission and means to fly home anyway. They had risked enough, he told him. He said they had found him, on the brink of death, ten days ago. The Detective himself could not remember much, for every time he tried to prod his mind more, his vision blurred and darkened, and his heart gave, galloping through his chest as if to pump its way out of his body.

It was not for himself that he was worried. No, not by far. He would pull through, he would claw his way back to health and strength, even if it meant listening to the neutral-faced nurses and suffer through the strict directions of snobbish doctors. It was his soldier that he was worried about.

His brother had said they had broken into Baker Street after there had been no signs of life for four days. That they had found him motionless, his eyes two bottomless pools. His therapist diagnosed the obvious: PTSD and depression. He had watched his Detective jump to his death, after all. Had been made to believe it happened because he was not enough. Because he was too late, too distant, too… too much of a coward.

The Detective closed his eyes. It was unfair. It was wrong for his soldier to suffer so deeply. Had he known… Had he only known how loved he was before he had to leave him, had he known the real reason… If only he could reach him now, with a soothing word, a tender touch, he would. Damn the fear of rejection, the insecurity of sharing and showing his heart.

But the instructions were clear. Until he could be released, he could not make contact, or the danger lurking at every corner would only be fed more hunger. All he could do now was hope. His Soldier was strong, stronger than any man he knew. He would pull through, would hang on, just for a little while longer. He could only close his eyes, and beg that he could listen: _believe in me. Please. I will return to you. Believe in me._


	6. Fireplace

**Little Swallow - pt. 2/8**

*******

20th December

**Fireplace**

A little Christmas cheer tonight: we finally have a proper fire going in the fireplace. Have not lit one in years, and cleaning the bloody thing was not enjoyable, but the result was rather rewarding. But once again, I have a puzzle to trouble you with. It was Sherlock’s idea. As was that we could try decorating Baker Street, for Rosie’s sake, if I’m up to it.

I do not know what’s come over him. It was not just last night, or today. It’s ever since we moved in, he has changed.

Of course, in most respects, he still is the same old git. I found a bat’s corpse in a Tupperware in the fridge the other day. Yes, it was blissfully rotting away. For those of you who worry, Rosie has her own mini-fridge; It’s me who had to order take-out that evening because I could not touch a single edible item that had been close to that poor bat -and I do not consider myself squeamish.

So, make no mistake, Sherlock is still arrogant, and stubborn as a mule, and blatantly rude. But there’s something in there that has softened. Even though I am not sure why. He has conceded to make space for Rosie. He talks to her and, when I can’t, feeds and changes her. So far, he has not complained about this arrangement, either. He did the dishes the other night. And let me choose what we’d watch on the telly just fifteen minutes ago. You see, it’s the little things when you’re living with Sherlock Holmes.

But I suppose, even if they are little things, but I will not deny that they mean a lot. After the tragic events of the previous month, it has been a welcome relief to know that Rosie and I are not alone, that we have a place to call home. It is encouraging that Sherlock understands this and gives us space, and the much-needed time to get used to this new life, and heal. It will not get better. It will never get better. But at least, we can slowly learn to cope.

We’re back in our armchairs as I am typing this, just like the good old times. He said we should watch the Bake-Off Christmas special. He’s up to something., if he’s being so nice. But for now, I suppose we will order in, laze away the rest of the evening. There might as well be a case for him tomorrow, so, Mike, will let you know about the pints.

💬 **6 Comments**

If he turns down a case for a Rosie-related reason, I would worry  
Molly Hooper 20 December 09:45

Did she sleep with the song this time too, my dear?  
Mrs Hudson 20 December 10:02

Yes, she most certainly did. I think it will become a practice for the holidays. Until she gets bored of it. Then woe to us.  
John H. Watson 20 December 10:06

Sounds nice and cosy, mate. You deserve it, after what happened. Enjoy your quiet night in, and do text me whenever you can!  
Mike Stamford 20 December 10:30

Time’s a healer for all things.  
Anonymous 20 December 23:23

I should hope so.  
John H. Watson 20 December 23:49

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *cough* Unreliable narrator *cough*


	7. Memories

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Implied suicidal ideation*

**The case of the Christmas saboteur - pt. 3/8**  
*******

All the way home, John’s lips had been pursed, his fists clenched tight. It made Sherlock worry -had he done something not good? But every time John looked at him, his eyes would soften, and he would smile just so, that Sherlock’s body would ease again, the same flesh-eating butterflies paying him more visits.

They ordered from Angelo’s, at John’s insistence. Fresh egg pasta, and slow-cooked ragu, an expensive bottle of red wine. Sherlock was only allowed to stand by and listen as John made the order. And when he tried to ask why the treat, John had raised an index to shush him. And, to Sherlock’s utter puzzlement, it worked.

They watched nothing in particular. Let the telly on, muted, while they ate on the couch. Sherlock was sitting with his back against the armrest, turned towards John with his legs bent between them as always, his plate balanced on his knees. John let him steal small forkfuls from his risotto, and helping himself in turn to his arancini -he had remembered to get his favourite appetiser.

“I wanted to ask you”, John began, trying to choose a nice piece of red meat from Sherlock’s plate. “Why is it that you don’t like Christmas?”

Sherlock sighed. “It is a meaningless celebration of tasteless things and needless, fake sentimentality”, he repeated in monotone for the umpteenth time. “There is nothing at all that truly separates the 25th of December, or the days leading up to it, from any other ordinary day”.

John hummed. “Not everyone has to like Christmas _for_ Christmas, you know”

“What do you mean?”, Sherlock’s eyes narrowed, cat-like, and he leaned closer.

“You don’t have to care about the lights, and decoration, and bloody Santa Claus”, John explained patiently. “It’s not everyone’s thing, and that should be okay. But it can be a chance to remember things that you can easily forget the rest of the year. Spending time with friends, appreciating family. Seeing people you have not seen in a long while…. Showing someone they are special for you with a… gift” At that, the indigo eyes had turned to Sherlock’s, and there was again that unreadable expression in them the Detective could not decode.

“Sentiment”, he dismissed, after blinking for a while in vain.

“Sentiment is not always bad, Sherlock. It’s not always sappy and silly like the films, yeah? It can be good. And important”

“It just disrupts logical thought”

“It doesn’t have to. There’s more than one way for feeling things. It just gets a bad name because there’s reckless people, blaming love for their mistakes, when they should be blaming arrogance, or egoism, or…” John stopped himself with a sigh.

Sherlock had had him explain things to him many a time before, but he had never seen him so agitated over a matter, trying to reach a conclusion which remained elusive and hazy. Slowly, he left his plate on the coffee table and folded his arms over his knees, and silently waited for John to continue, because that is what felt like the right thing to do. When the other man’s eyes fell on him again a smile bloomed on his lips, and he leaned back, tension oozing from him slowly.

“I did not like Christmas either, you know. Last year I spent it gyrating the hospital and a therapist’s office”. John’s left hand curled into a fist, and he hid the tremor against the armrest with frustration. “There was nothing… festive about it. I was just… alone. And that was that. I did not want to celebrate, and I thought… I never would again”

It twisted something in him, it hurt. Of course, he had known that John was having difficulties to adjust to civilian life before they met, that he had been on the verge of a desperate decision that would have meant they would never get the chance to meet at all. The thought alone terrified him.

Sherlock took in the twinkling lights on the curtain posts, the lit-up Christmas tree, the Santa hat over his skull on the mantelpiece, the mistletoe branch over the door, his breath crowding in his throat.

“I want to celebrate now”, John said, his voice light as a snowflake’s touch.

“Why?”

“Because I have… I have you, now. I have you, and… And that makes me have things to celebrate for”

Sherlock felt his heart drumming in his chest, and his clammy palms had crumpled the fabric of his pyjama bottoms where he’d clutched it, tight.

“I am not asking you to like Christmas, Sherlock, because this is not _about_ Christmas, it’s about… It’s…” He inhaled, deeply, and tried to recompose himself before he continued. “I want… I want us to have a dinner, here, on Christmas eve. A proper dinner. Would you want that?”

He nodded, but he could only snatch new words here and then. His brain was stuck on listening to John’s voice say _because I have you_ over and over again.


	8. Music

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *angst*

**My love, he comes to me at night - pt.3/8**  
*******

_December 20 th _

The Detective walked up the stairs, unsteady as a new-born fawn. His eyes shone as if on their own in the darkness, as he looked up, keeping his target locked in sight, a compass. Body and mind still healing, still raw to the touch of pain and memory, he had to lean against the wall to remain steady, and with every step he winced. But he was so close, now. So close to the reason for his very existence.

How would his Soldier react when he saw him? Would he cry out in shock or fear, find his knees had gone weak? Would he be angry, brimming with disbelief, with pain?

The Detective trudged step after step. No matter what reception he was to have, he’d take it. He’d fall to his knees and beg forgiveness if he must, but he would not let his Soldier stay in this torment for a moment longer.

On the landing he paused, despite his determination. If he were to explain, why he chose the fall all these months ago, his secret truth would be revealed too. And for a moment only, the prospect of the words that would leave his lips overwhelmed him. Rejection materialised, then, a frozen hand about to pluck his heart. But no. He shook his head. Not turning back now. Not lingering a moment longer. He unlocked the door and stepped inside.

His home was dark and dusty, the moon’s light strewn plaintively across the floor. No sound was heard. But there was no sense of lurking. Only the stillness that came with the absence of life. Terror grew inside him, a hollow, black tide. He had to be there, he had to be well, oh please…

But no. There he was. He had only missed his sleeping form in the dark. His Soldier, curled on his red armchair, under the Detective’s old coat. His cheek pillowed on a clenched fist, elbow supported against the armrest. His cheeks were dusky with stubble, the skin under his eyes as dark as a bruise with lack of sleep. He had undoubtedly lost weight, and his complexion was pale, making him look so much older than he was.

Sherlock knelt in front of him and reached for the hand that was resting on his lap. He wished he could take all the pain away, smooth the crumpled wreck his Soldier had become, blow life onto his lips again. “John”, he said, voice a yellowed leaf in the autumn breeze.

His soldier stirred, and forced his eyelids open. “Sherlock?”

The Detective saw joy pass through the Soldier’s face, unparalleled, wild joy, thick with need. And, in horror, watched as joy withered to disappointment.

“I’m dreaming”, the Soldier said hoarsely. “You’re not real”

Sherlock brought the calloused hand he was holding to his cheek, his lips, pressed it against the tears that had bloomed from his eyes. “John…”, he whispered. “John…”

The Soldier smiled, and the smile was soft, and small, and sad. “You never spoke, before. When I would see you”

Sherlock shook his head. “I’m here now. I’m here”, he begged, even though he knew his Soldier would not believe him tonight, not tonight. He needed time, time to heal. In body and mind. And the Detective would give it to him. As much time as it took.

“I missed the music of your voice”, John murmured, and his eyes closed again.

“I’m here, now. I will never leave you again”, Sherlock gasped, his chest an empty cavern, about to collapse into itself.

“Stay with me, tonight?”, John’s voice reached him in a wistful whisper. “Just tonight?”

“Always. _Always_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oof, that was a bumpy ride. Things will get better with the next chapter of this story, promise!  
> 


	9. Gift

**Little Swallow - pt. 3/8**  
*******

(on a page of Sherlock’s “Scrapbook no.1”)

**December 20 th **

_Observations:_  
John appreciates the gesture of exchanging gifts during Christmas  
John is worried and stresses easily about everything  
There are things that Watson requires but lacks

 _Hypotheses:_  
Giving John a gift will be Good, because it will make him feel appreciated  
Must be a gift which will help him feel better  
Giving Watson a gift will be positive because it can help with her care/entertainment/healthy growth  
  


_For John:_  
Jumper?  
~~A  
~~Conclusion: ?

 _For Watson:_  
Books  
Puzzle sets  
A new plushie…? (A bee?)  
New cot mobile (-old one is broken -might help her sleep better)  
Better baby chair?  
New clothes? (Must check what we are lacking)  
Conclusion: ~~new clothes and~~ **ALL OF THE ABOVE**

_Additional data required:  
What gift will make John feel better. _

**December 21 st **

_Additional observations:_  
John uses his laptop to update his blog almost every night (New laptop? But the one he has runs smoothly, and John is not a fan of highly advanced technology)  
John has nightmares  
John likes cosy, warm things (He liked the idea of lighting the fireplace. Cf. jumper)  
John smiles when he interacts with Watson (A gift that will mean they will spend more time together?)  
John has become obsessed with me and Watson’s safety (So, nothing involving danger)

_Conclusion:  
I have no idea what gift to get for John. _

_…I have no idea how to be with John, either. Ever since Mary he’s… He is the same man, but something is missing. And no, it’s not her. That was obvious since day 1. It’s as if, even though now that’s done and over with, something is still amiss. I cannot pinpoint exactly what. If I could, that could help find a gift. But a discussion about the matter is not to take place because ~~I am afraid of the answers I’d get.~~ _

_Perhaps the insistence to keep him away from cases was ~~Mycroft being stupid~~ wrong. It has been a month, after all. Surely the issue is forgotten and glossed over by now (and if it’s not my brother is the most useless man to ever hold a minor position in the British government). An adrenaline rush could be the solution. ~~It’s all I have to offer, anyway~~. _

_I try not to read the stupid blog. I know why it’s meant to be like that. But it only gets me more confused. How much of it is John?_

_He wrote that it should come as a surprise that I did not snap when Watson was crying. That “the great Sherlock Holmes”, the madman, would never behave as I did that night. That it is astonishing that I would care for Watson. That me being ‘nice’ means I am ‘up to something’._

_…Maybe he does believe all that._

_…Maybe he is right. I don’t know who I am trying to fool anyway. Being that… madman is what I can do best. All else is just… Surprising. Out-of-character._

_Perhaps that’s all I can be, after all._


	10. Do you see what I see?

**The case of the Christmas saboteur - pt. 4/8**  
*******

Sherlock kept hearing John’s words in his mind, over and over, until it was evident that he would get no sleep that night. There were too many possibilities to explore, too much data to collect. _I have you, now. And that makes me have things to celebrate for._ Sherlock’s heart reared and kicked against his breastbone. And that feeling swelling in it, was hope.

He had not known how to approach the issue of feelings before. It had not been a problem, after a while. Not when most string emotions he experienced revolved around the sting of rejection, ridicule, exclusion. Eventually, they all became a dull afterthought. Even pain he could reduce to chemicals, to a habit. But with John… The reactions, logical, illogical, biological or weirdly untraceable, were an enemy he could not beat or join, so he just avoided it. But now, now he was offered a way, a glimpse! John had said Christmas was about people; appreciating them, showing them they were special. Sherlock was up and dressed for the day at once.

He made them breakfast, French toast with home-made whipped cream and strawberries. Something that took time and care, not the usual everyday fry-up, or plain dull toast with weak tea. John’s face, when his eyes found the heap of food served on the table, turned that light hue over a smirk, what Sherlock had learned to categorise as “pleasant surprise”.

Then John said he’d go do the shopping for the dinner in two days’ time, and Sherlock offered to go with him, because he never helped with the shopping, on any other usual, boring, dull day, but these days he had to make John realise how special he was to him. And all the way, he did not complain once about the lack of cases, and tried not to let deductions fly out of his mouth that John would rebuke with a hiss of ‘rude’. He succeeded, for the most part. Well, except that comment about the infuriatingly idiotic customer on the check-out line in front of them and his sex obsession. On hindsight, why had he flushed when John had side-eyed him like that, just before he had mentioned- oh to hell with it.

Once home, he helped John pack away the shopping, and carry one of Mrs. Hudson’s spare, good porcelain sets of bowls and plates, and an array of crystal champagne, wine, and brandy glasses.

“I can make dinner, tonight. Let you rest before all the cooking tomorrow”, Sherlock said, as he stuffed the last packet of tomato sauce into the upper cupboard.

“You’ve been so… good, today”, John’s voice praised from the fridge, and he was soon rewarded with a smile. “Thank you, Sherlock. I… I appreciate that. I am… I’m glad you want this as much as I do”

Sherlock grinned, only to receive a wink in reply.

 _When you look at me, do you see what I see when I look at you, John?,_ he thought, as he turned his crimson-stained cheeks away giddily. _Do you hope for what I am hoping?_

“Can you count the plates, for me, how many have we got?” John’s voice woke him from his reverie.

He closed the cupboard -with some effort, to keep everything inside- and hurried to the stacked plates and bowls on the table. “One, two, three, four”, he murmured, under his breath, as he counted. “We’re good”

“How many?”

“Four”

“We need six”

“Six?” They were facing each other now, and Sherlock blinked at John in confusion, nose scrunching up. “But it’s just Lestrade, Molly, me, and you”

“And two dates” John chirped.

It was like a frozen slap. “Pardon?”

“Lestrade is brining someone. And…”

“And?”, he demanded. _Who_ was bringing a date? He for one wasn’t, he had seen Molly but a few days ago and she was definitely not seeing anyone, let alone… His eyes sought John’s and when John pulled his gaze away, Sherlock felt as if the ground was slipping beneath his feet as he was trying to climb, run, _flee_ , breaths turning into panting on his tongue.

“And one more”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So it begins.


	11. Comfort and joy

**My love, he comes to me at night - pt. 4/8**   
*******

_December 21 st_

The Detective stayed, just as he had promised.

At first, he watched as his Soldier drifted off to a deep, tormented sleep, his weary face a grimace of pain. Still on his knees, still with the Soldier’s hand held in his own, the Detective pressed the cold, calloused palm against his cheek. Even though he had travelled half the world to save this man, he was beginning to see that saving his Soldier would have to begin at that very moment. His own fatigue was at once gone form his mind, the ordeal his body was still through pushed aside. There was but a single thought in his mind now. How best to give his Soldier comfort, how best to ease his pain.

With gentle hands, he lifted his Soldier in his arms, so light had he become in the months of his absence. He laid the coiled with tension body onto the leather couch, folded the discarded old coat of his and put it away. The Soldier barely stirred through all of this, and had not moved at all when the Detective returned with a blanket to wrap around him.

Then he stood, panting, the wounds he carried not letting him do much more to show his care, to mend the cracks of the man in front of him. He stood, as he regained his breath, and wondered. Would he be allowed back into this home? Would his Soldier forgive him, when he knew what he had done, when he stopped believing this had been a dream?

There was no way of knowing -and whatever punishment or price he deserved, he saw that now. He saw it in the frown permanently etched above his Soldier’s eyebrows, in the faint tremor of his left hand even when asleep, in the way his body had coiled into itself, a child in the womb.

Surrendered, he slipped under the blanket and lay around his Soldier, until his chest was pressed to the hunched back, until his legs could cradle the other man’s, his arm around the Soldier’s waist and his forehead pressed against the crown of his head. He breathed in the dark. The blanket’s woolly musk. White soap. Tea. The warmth of the body in his arms, whose breaths he counted, felt them swell and ebb like waves against his own body, each and every one, through the night. Whatever comfort he could give, he would, even in the form of an embrace long overdue -a first gone wrong.

His Soldier’s eyes flickered well into the next day, the grey beams of winter light already slanted and retreating. He did not fight the body coiled around him, or gasp in shock, or surprise, even though the Detective would have been prepared to let go, to move away.

Instead, the Soldier found the Detective’s hand with his own, and brought it to his lips. “You madman”, he breathed, his voice an open wound.

The Detective’s shoulders tensed, but he only felt a kiss being bestowed onto his fingers. It made him squirm softly, a frightened little creature. 

“No, don’t go”, the Soldier murmured, and held onto his hand tighter. But there was no pain in his tone now. But a weird sense of peace, a blanket of snow over a field.

The Detective rose a little onto his other elbow, to peer down at his Soldier’s face. And there, to his utter puzzlement, he saw a smile. The first blooming bud of spring.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There, some fluff ^^


	12. Gingerbread

**Little Swallow - pt. 4/8**   
*******

_DRAFT 23:54_

22nd December  
**Gingerbread**

We made a gingerbread house today. Sherlock, of course, loves ginger nuts. He devours them with the speed of a mouse nibbling away at cheese. I got a new packet yesterday, fresh from the bakery, and now they’re all gone.

Well, I say we, but the truth is I came home from work to find Rosie and Sherlock baking away. With flour-doused hair and noses. She was in her baby chair, mostly watching, of course, totally rapt, because he was singing to her, and talking to her. But when he saw me, he froze, and stammered. And started blinking, of course. It was obvious that he was not expecting me to return home early, and had not bothered to consider the possibility that I would take the rest of the days leading up to Christmas off work. Who, the Sherlock who would deduce which paper I would read two days before I read it.

Well, he should have known better. Rascals, both of them, thought they’d get out of making gingerbread without me.

Can you believe he blushed when I said so? He turned away to hide it, but I saw.

He always tries to appear calm, collected, especially after what happened. I know he’s doing it to reassure me, to make me feel that even if I sometimes falter, he’s in control, and I am not alone. And I feel that, I truly do, and I appreciate it. I am not afraid when I am with him. You can imagine how that new practice of Mycroft’s, not letting me go to cases with him, has gone down. I understand the reason, but I loathe it all the same. At the thought alone of something happening to him again, my heart could burst.

I have no idea if he knows. And I have no idea if I should tell him. I wanted to, I’ve been meaning to, but somehow, when a chance arrives, and plenty have (I think) I just don’t take it.

I suppose I’m afraid that if I want to have more than I do, something will go wrong, he’ll be snatched from me again.

Well, no thinking like that, now. My Christmas holidays have officially begun, after all. And bollocks, of course I can’t post this, what am I doing? I really need to get a grip.

Could write about that notebook I found it forgotten on the kitchen table, also covered in flour. Leather-bound, Montblanc, I think (too much flour), opened on a page with the recipe written on. He must have forgotten it was there, because he did not retrieve it when he went to sleep this evening.

Should I open it?

If I’m lucky it will have the details of the cases I’m not allowed to go to in it. Worst-case scenario, it’s experiment notes.

What am I saying, of course I won’t snoop. He will know, he will just instantly know, and I’ll be in trouble, won’t I.

Maybe I am just hoping to find an answer in there. Anywhere.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, can you believe we're already halfway through this challenge, and ficlet? ^^


	13. Frost

**The case of the Christmas saboteur - pt. 5/8**   
*******

John was bringing a date on the Christmas dinner. _Their_ Christmas dinner. For the Christmas he said he wanted to celebrate because of _Sherlock._ For the Christmas Sherlock had dared give in to hope, even just a little bit of it. That John would see, and-

Stupid. He had only been stupid. Had given in to fickle sentimentality.

He glanced around, lost, each twinkling light mocking him, every decoration parodying the joy he’d lost. Oblivious to the demolition taking place inside Sherlock’s chest, John had begun to whistle, as he gave the worktop a thorough cleaning with disinfectant,

How had Sherlock not _seen_ this? _Who_ was this date, this date that dared destroy this, take this away from him? John’s last date had been four months ago. For this to be invited to Christmas dinner, she was bound to be important. But when had John met her?

Bells of alarm went off in his mind. Old, close friend or past girlfriend. They were reunited at the clinic. A recent event, but with enough history to be taken up again. Of course!

“Sherlock? You okay?”

“Yes. Yes, of course I’m okay”

“Okay, um… Sorry about dinner tonight, but. I’ve got somewhere to go”

The lump in Sherlock’s throat now turned into a ball of thorns.

“Tomorrow, yeah?”, John smiled, turning around, nonchalant to all appearances. Oh for god’s sakes, when was he expecting to tell him? But then again, why would John inform him about his… love life, anyway. Sherlock nodded noncommittally, not strong enough to ask where and how and why.

Watched as John hurried upstairs to get dressed, and then watched his back as he hurried down the stairs. In shirt, jacket, and the dating shoes. Every step that took him further turned Sherlock’s heart to ice.

Sherlock knew he should let it go. He should let it go now, barricade his heart anew, and start over, pretend nothing had changed. But the more he thought about it, the more he replayed the scene of John telling him about that date in his mind, the more he felt to swell with indignation. It was not long until he had categorically decided that this constituted betrayal, of the highest order. It would have been alright, had John not given those treacherous words to him, had John not made him long for what he knew he could not have. Why did he do that, if he did not mean those words? John was not a man who would hurt him this way on purpose. It was his recklessness that had hurt Sherlock, and his total inability to see the true nature of what he’d sparked. And for once, Sherlock was angry. An anger as biting as the frost. Because he had believed that he would deserve that spark, that gift.

Jaw set, back imperiously straight and stride bold, he marched right into John’s room. He would research everything. Find every embarrassing little thing about that date, expose all of John’s worst habits. And more. Oh, so much more.

With the anger of a man who wants to destroy his own creation, he set to work, curls askew, both laptops on and brimming with research, the entire flat holding its breath with every idea he devised, turning colder, and colder. It would have to be a meticulous plan, thought out in every detail. If he could not have what was so recklessly promised to him, then neither would that date. Or anyone else.

But he’d have to hurry.

“Christmas”, he murmured with a decisive, sardonic smile, shutting the door of 221B behind him. “Is cancelled”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Grinch, anyone? XD


	14. A Beautiful Sight

**My love, he comes to me at night - pt. 5/8**   
*******

“You know I’m…?”

“You cannot feel the pulse of apparitions”, the Soldier replied, pressing his Detective’s wrist over his lips. For several long moments he was silent, his closed eyelids fluttering, and the Detective wondered if he was counting, measuring, the beats of his heart. If he could hear what they said.

“Will you leave again?”, the Soldier asked, voice a sliver of ice.

“No. No, never” The Detective wished he could tighten his grip, nestle his Soldier closer into his arms; but he refrained from being too bold. It was not him who would decide.

“Do you understand? Do you understand how- I grieved for you. Mourned you. I never stopped”

The Detective understood. And if he had had the tiniest hint of doubt, seeing his Soldier the previous night had quelled it. He had caused this, this human wreck shrouded with pain. “I do”, he said thickly.

The Soldier nodded, a trembling breath travelling through his body. “I don’t know… If I will ever forgive you. If I will ever be strong enough to ask why. But if you stay… If you promise me… If-”

“Always. Always, anything. Anything you ask of me, I will give you. Anything”

There was no reply, at first. The Detective could feel his heartbeat thrumming against the other man’s shoulder blade. And then, when it had been long enough to think that he had been rejected, his Soldier turned around in his arms until their eyes could meet.

There were so many questions there, in the weary sea depths, so many questions the Detective would need an eternity to answer. “I thought of you… Every day. Every moment”, he started, hoping to unravel infinity.

“I missed you”, came the reply. “I missed you so fucking much I could not breathe…” The Soldier raised a hand to his face. He hovered, at first, as If afraid to touch. And when the cool palm framed his face, it was featherlight. The thumb brushing over the jawline just so. “Sherlock…”, he said, tongue and lips cradling every sound. “Sherlock…”

The Detective shuddered, and closed his eyes, as the Soldier’s hand moved lower, caressing; down to his neck, over his shoulder, down the line of his ribs. When it crept to his back, to coil and pull him into an embrace, the Detective gasped and pulled away, memories stirring beneath his skin.

“You’re hurt”, the Soldier murmured. And then “Let me see”

“No, please”, the Detective stammered, averting his gaze. “I’m not a beautiful sight”

“Let me see…”, the Soldier begged again.

The Detective stood on numb legs. Shed his jacket. His fingers clumsy over the shirt’s buttons. He did not want to see the expression on his Soldier’s face. The disgust. The fear. Yet he revealed his back all the same, its jagged patchwork of gauze and stitches and healing scars.

The Soldier stood behind him, placed a kiss on the nape of the lowered head. Kissed each and every scar, bestowed his promise for hope, for healing. And at first the Detective squirmed, and trembled. But with every whisper - _beautiful, love, I’ve got you_ -, every caress, he eased, slowly, trusting. Melted into the arms that were always meant to hold him. Oh, how could you not know how loved you were? How loved you always are?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> They're getting there!


	15. Toy Soldier

**Little Swallow - pt. 5/8**   
*******

(A letter in an unsealed envelope, resting on Sherlock’s closed scrapbook -which was left, clean from flour, on the kitchen table)

_Sherlock,_

_I do not want to be a coward, but I don’t know if I will be able to say everything I need to say to you face to face. I will most probably falter or stammer. So you’ll have to forgive me for resorting to this. Or perhaps you’ll be happy to know that you’re right, technology doesn’t suit me that much after all. I’m better with pen and paper (you git)._

_I told you once that it was difficult. Doing this. It does not come naturally to me. And while that still holds true, it is true now for different reasons. I want you to know that I the things you will read I have thought, over and over, for months. In one form or other. I have tried and failed to find the words, the way. I want you to know that what made me do it, was you._

_I found this scrapbook on the floured table last night. You forgot it there, opened on a page with the gingerbread recipe written on it. I just cleaned it for you -I did not read a single page. But once I saw the cover, I knew it was not the first time I was seeing this notebook around. You always have it on you, ever since we moved back in, but last night was the first time I realised. You are always scribbling things down. When we are eating, when we are watching telly, when you’re with Rosie and think I’m not looking. And I do not need to deduce why, because I know: you love her. Rosie, and you, everyone I know has moved on, and changed. And I am tired of staying behind._

_Sherlock, I regret a number of things. I regret the way I became a father, when I had not wanted or planned for a child. I regret the things I put you through by choosing the person I did. When she pulled that trigger, when I almost lost you, that is when I fully realised just how lost I had been. But I see now that mourning you after you fell, these two years of pain had cast a shroud over my eyes. And it was not removed but only when I almost, almost lost you again. Remember how on that train, that night, you begged for my forgiveness? For this, and for so much more, this time it is I that beg for yours._

_What I will never regret, is pulling that trigger. I do not know what kind of person it makes me, but my consciousness is clear. The nightmares that plague me are not because of what I did, of how I will tell Rosie when she grows up. They are the terror of something happening to you, of something snatching you from me again._

_I will never regret moving back to Baker Street with you. You make me a better man, a better father. Before I met you I thought I was broken, needing to be fixed; nothing but a toy soldier. But your war, was the only war I wanted to fight for. You bring out things in me that I always wanted to be and never quite knew how. I do not give you enough credit for this. I want to tell the world about the marvel you are. The most human, human being. I can’t tell the world, I can’t write the truth on the blog like I used to, if I am to keep us all safe. But, even if I am not be able to tell the world, I can tell you. And I’m starting now._

_But the things I need to say, the things I have kept buried in me for so long, I need to know if you want to hear them. If not, I will not write another letter, will never bother you with this again._

_But, at least, please tell me if you’ll forgive me. And then… It’s up to you._

_It’s always, and only, up to you._

_JHW_


	16. Season's greetings

**The case of the Christmas saboteur - pt. 6/8**   
*******

“Sherlock? Did you change the oven temperature at some point?”

“Why would I, John?”

“Dunno -that bloody bird is still not ready” John’s knees cracked as he stood from his crouched position in front of the oven door. His apron, neon green, and sloppy, candy-cane lettering that read ‘Santa’s little helper’ at the front, was way too small for him, but it was the only one Mrs. Hudson had, and John had remembered he’d need one only last minute. “Did you run an experiment in there yesterday, perhaps?”, he now groaned.

Sherlock made a show of rolling his eyes at him and stole another mince pie from the platter arranged on the kitchen table.

“You sure you haven’t drugged those?”, John panted, hurrying after him.

“I haven’t drugged anything, John, don’t be absurd; I’m _eating_ them”, Sherlock huffed, pretending to be studying the mince pie rather well regardless before he took a bite.

“Yeah, well”

“What?”

John scratched his neck. “Nothing you just… Uh… Is everything alright?”

“Of course, it is, John”, he smiled, the perfect grin of innocence.

“Yeah, right. If you’re not up to something, I’m gonna eat my hat”, John murmured, throwing the towel he was holding over his shoulder as he started tending to the stubborn fowl anew.

Of course, nothing was alright. Yet. Sherlock had spent the entire nights of the 22nd, and 23rd, when John was away and asleep respectively, to come up with a way to thwart this nightmare of a Christmas dinner. He had tried to lay low and not trigger John’s suspicions when the Doctor was home, but apparently, he was extremely bad at hiding a sulk, and John had picked up on it. But still, he had not apologised, or explained, or told Sherlock that he had made a tremendous mistake and would not be bringing that date after all. So, Sherlock proceeded as planned.

The doorbell rang, breaking the quiet. It was hardly seven yet.

“Sherlock, get that, please?”, John called over his shoulder, poking and prodding the turkey with a knife through the now open oven door.

Mrs Hudson was faster. “Thought you were one of my guests”, Sherlock heard her say as he leaned over the banister on the landing. Soon enough, Lestrade’s heavy, bored footsteps thudded onto the stairs.

“Happy Christmas, Sherlock”, he croaked, passing him a bottle of red wine and hurrying inside.

“Greg!”, John paused, a mangled wing of turkey pierced on the carving knife in his hand. “Are you okay-”

“Break-up”, Sherlock cut in, taking in the Detective Inspector’s unshaved face, and unkempt grey hair, the dark circles under his eyes, how he had obviously been drinking.

“Yeah, um… The date, won’t be coming. Sorry, John. We just…”

“It’s alright, it’s alright. Have a seat, yeah? Brandy?”, John fussed, giving Sherlock a death-stare over Lestrade’s head as the man had taken a seat on the kitchen table.

The doorbell rang again, but this time when Mrs Hudson opened the door, there came in raucous commotion, which grew even more as her guests squeezed into the small corridor, and roared one more time just before the door of 221A was shut behind them.

“I thought she was only having her sister over?”, John asked, as he handed Lestrade the brandy -which the other man downed in one go.

“Apparently there was a change of plans”, Sherlock shrugged.

“I’m not inclined to believe that, but okay”

“I hate Christmas”, Lestrade sighed, oblivious to their bickering.

“Why?”, John asked, resignation clear in his voice.

“I’ve been subjected to so much ranting about it, about the whole bloody thing…”

“O-kay… You can talk about it with Sherlock, I need to finish ah, cooking”

Sherlock glanced at the wreck of a man Lestrade had turned into, and tried to remember how to act politely. He shuddered at the prospect of small-talk, shoving the words off his tongue as neutrally as possible “So… she detests Christmas?” 

“You have no idea how much”, Lestrade exclaimed and grabbed for a mince pie. 

“I disapprove of this break-up, then”

“Oh, sod off -what is that?”

Vibrating bass beats and deafening brass layered with giddy percussion erupted from the flat downstairs among cheering and clapping.

“And that’s the fucking _landlady_ ”, Lestrade said stoically, with a shake of his head.

“Are we going to have to deal with this all night?”, John sounded positively exasperated. Sherlock hid his grin behind the last bite of his mince pie. The doorbell rang again as if in reply, and John’s eyes turned as wide as an owl’s. “Don’t tell me she has more coming”

Chatter and music spilled from 221A as someone answered the door, and there was more cheering and greetings and well-wishing until the newcomer was ushered inside the downstairs apartment… And then one minute later, was running as if for his life to reach their landing, a new wave of sound chasing at his heels.

Sherlock blinked, and found his brother -shaky and with a cocktail stick in one hand, umbrella and coat nowhere in sight, showered in glitter, a bouquet of artificial black feathers in his suit pocket- blinking back. “I just saw your landlady in sequinned tights”, he said, slowly, Adam’s apple bobbing with uncertainty.

Sherlock frowned. “What are _you_ doing here?”, he said. But no, it was not he who said it. It was Lestrade, already on his feet and looking at Mycroft with a stupidly starry-eyed and puzzled expression.

“Gregory”

“What’s going on here?”, John murmured, back from the kitchen, trying to wipe his hands on his already smeared apron.

Ignoring both of them, the Detective Inspector stood in front of Mycroft. “You. I hate you”, he said, poking his index finger on the other man’s collarbone. And with that, all the tension in his body seemed to evaporate, and he all but collapsed, face mushed against Mycroft’s shoulder – a Mycroft who kept blinking, from Sherlock to the man against him.

“Say something!”, Lestrade growled.

“Yes…”, Mycroft soothed awkwardly.

“Bastard”

“Alright”

“Idiot”

“I… concede it. Just this once. I was… Blunt and… Perhaps inconsiderate of-”

“Shut up”

And Mycroft did.

That last bite of mince pie turned into a mothball halfway down Sherlock’s oesophagus. “John”, he whizzed, forgetting how he was supposed to be nonchalant and petty and sulky with him, forgetting everything about the date, and the plan. He could only hear the thump of the inane beat playing downstairs pulse in his ears. A weak, inquisitive hum came as a reply, as John numbly made his way to stand by him in front of the fireplace, his greasy hands held awkwardly in front of his chest.

“Are you seeing...?”, Sherlock mumbled as if in a trance.

“I think so…, John replied in the same way.

“I wish I’d drugged those mince pies”

“Yeah… That would be… Convenient…”

“Can I have…”

“Yeah, I’ll pour two”

“F-four”

“The door”, Mycroft sighed with a roll of his eyes, trying to speak over the drone of the doorbell and roar of music.

‘The date’, Sherlock’s mind snapped. He had bigger problems now, waiting right on his doorstep, to let his stupid brother distract him from his cause.

“I’ll get it” Gritting his teeth, he marched down the door, bracing himself, slamming all the walls and defences in his barricade of a heart back in place. He almost ripped the front door off its hinges when he opened it. The woman waiting outside smiled. “Merry Christmas”

“Ah. Clara”


	17. Warm and Cosy

**My love, he comes to me at night - pt. 6/8**

***

The Detective looked at the roaring fireplace for a few moments, from his nest of blankets on the couch, and then closed his eyes. The fatigue of all these months was beginning to settle in, its effects like a heavy blanket atop him. 221B had turned into a cocoon of warmth, banishing the cold of the fear, still quick to wake, in his blood.

His Soldier had washed him, held him in his arms as if he were made of crystal -or, if he winced because a wound bared its teeth, as if he was a scared child. It had been a revelation to see the deep-sea eyes crinkle with fondness, smile with a feeling not quite obvious in its name, as the Soldier caressed, and stitched, and put together pieces he had not even known he'd lost all this while.

The Detective was now waiting for him, at ease because he could hear the tell-tale sounds in the kitchen; the chime of plates, the playful bubbling of boiling water. It was not long until they were eating the plain soup in silence, sitting side by side, each counting the other's spoonfuls.

The Soldier pressed his hand over his face, then let it fall into his lap like a lifeless leaf. "I still think it's a lie. That the next time I will open my eyes, you will be gone"

"I won't be", the Detective replied, to receive a grimace.

"It has happened before"

"I know…", he whispered.

The Soldier merely shook his head, once. "I must-"

"Please. You need rest. I am alright, and I won’t leave. Promise”

The Soldier blinked at him, a rueful smile tugging at one corner of his lips. "You have changed..."

It was true, in a way. But it scratched at something raw and ugly inside him; regret. Regret that he had made it so believable that he could not have said such words, before, that he could not feel them. When in truth it was the fear, the immaturity, and then the impossibility. He ached to amend this now. "My heart has not", he said. Reached for the Soldier's hand, and cupped it, with his own, over the beating core of him.

"Sherlock..."

"Please" A tug. A plea.

There was no rejection or resistance. The Soldier leaned closer, until he could lie over his chest, his head nestled beneath his Detective’s chin. Small, just as he’d been when curled under the coat on his armchair. With despair still clinging on him; hands fisted on a pyjama shirt, body a tremor of need. “I should hate you”, he breathed, and burrowed closer. “Why can’t I hate you?”

He did not know. It was a question of his own that he was not sure he would be brave enough to ask. There had been no talk of this, of the intimacy between them, before or now. He was still not sure just in what way he would be allowed to stay.

“I am angry. I want… I want…”, the Soldier growled, his voice strained as a taut violin string.

The Detective stroked the blond hair turned silver way too soon, hushed and soothed him, rocking him in his arms and not objecting, even when the grip tightened enough to snatch his breath. “I know…”, he said only. “I know” 


	18. Celebration

**Little Swallow - pt. 6/8**   
*******

24th December

**Celebration**

Happy Christmas… Eve!

I won’t be writing on the blog for a couple of days (even a blogger needs a holiday), and thought I’d fill you in for our plans so far.

First and foremost: Sherlock has a case! We’re expecting the client to drop by any minute now. From what I have gathered so far, it involves a good amount of family tensions and conflicting interests, and some jewellery theft, amidst the scandal of an interrupted wedding. Sounds kitsch, I know. No idea why Sherlock was so hooked on it from the start.

Now that I’m thinking about it, maybe it’s because the Christmas spirit has truly got him after all. He is in a particularly cheerful mood. He played on the violin for hours last night, all tunes old Christmas melodies. He’s particularly fond of (I mean obsessed with) Carol of the Bells. Which should be polyphonic, but he somehow managed to adapt it. It sounds unique -if not entirely loyal to the original, as far as I can tell. And of course, the effect is rather soulful and dramatic. But he plays masterfully. Good old Sherlock, he would never be content trying something simple.

So, we will be busy with the case after the 26th. Sherlock said he wants to spend today and tomorrow here in Baker Street with us. Which probably has a lot to do with those mince pies Mrs. Hudson keeps hoarding. To be honest, we both could use the rest. And he could use the weight he is definitely putting on, pie by pie (although he is, of course, going to disagree with that. And will probably sulk forever that I dared insult him in such a manner. Am I a risk-taker).

Of course, Rosie is as lively as ever. I am sure she has already figured out that half the wrapped, shiny and extremely interesting packages under the tree are for her. She always tries to crawl to them if we put her down on the carpet.

Tonight, we’ll have dinner here -the turkey is already in the oven- and have an early night. Maybe give Cluedo another go before we do. Tomorrow we’ll open the presents, have Mrs. Hudson and a few of our friends over for lunch, and then indulge in the Christmas episodes of Bake-Off. I am sure Sherlock’s Christmas carols will make another appearance. And of course, there’s card and letter-writing and giving. Maybe I’ll receive one too, this year (a man can hope). Just one would be more than enough.

Basically, we won’t do much else, apart from lazing around. But then again, we’ll have a toddler obsessed with new, loud, shiny toys, so I suppose we are justified.

💬 4 Comments

So happy for both of you! See you on Christmas day!  
Molly Hooper 24 December 10:55

Sounds good, mate! So we’ll arrange that pint when you’re done with the case -have fun!   
Mike Stamford 24 December 11:12

Happy holidays, my dear! Just in case anyone was wondering, the mince pies are an old recipe of Mrs. Turner’s.  
Mrs. Hudson 24 December 11:24

You will get much more than a letter. Much more than one.   
Anonymous 24 December 17:04

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If I end up being one day late, well, we;re just going to finishthis little series of ficlets on the 25th -hope noone minds :)


	19. Silent Night

**The case of the Christmas saboteur - pt. 7/8**  
*******

Sherlock’s eyes scanned her, from the top of her head with that ridiculous woollen beanie, to her boots. This was what John wanted? Normalcy? Ordinariness? Dull. Dull, dull, dull! How could he ever think she would offer as much excitement, and thrill, and adventure, he could? How could he think he could ever get away with telling him that _he_ was the reason to celebrate, _he,_ only to then bring a date home? No. No, no, he regretted nothing, on the contrary, felt the sting of this treason like the wind blowing in his sails. He would set this injustice right, once and for all. And not even having seen that Lestrade was his brother’s… something, would faze him.

“Can I come in?”, she giggled. “You’re doing that thing, aren’t you? Deducing everything… I’m not a murderer or terrorist, I swear!”, she put her hands up, laughter still clinging on the edges of her lips.

Had John told her all that, Sherlock thought, furious. But when he spoke, his voice was as deceptively sweet as he could make it without wincing. “Yes, yes, of course!”.

“Who was it?”, he heard John’s voice from the kitchen when they stepped onto the landing. “Ah, Clara! There you are, so happy you made it!”, he added a moment later, and Sherlock bit down on his tongue when he saw them embracing. “Brought sweets!”, she said, in that ever light, happy voice.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. He knew this type of person: the ever good, ever kind, ever positive and optimistic, and all these adjectives that made his stomach churn. And yet that’s what John wanted, so that’s the person that he would have to kick out tonight. Oh well.

He slid to his armchair as John introduced Clara to Lestrade and his brother -who shot Sherlock a peculiar glance. He had not prepared for the case of Mycroft showing up, because a) John would never have invited him (he did not know _he_ would be Lestrade’s date, that much had been obvious), and b) his brother detested Christmas (perhaps more than Sherlock detested him). Mycroft might try to stop him, for whatever reason, so this was another hurdle Sherlock had to pass. And of course, when too many hurdles appeared, the only choice was to step into the offensive _first._

John returned to the kitchen to start plating the food, and Clara, who had been offered a mince pie and a glass of wine, sauntered toward the lit fireplace. “Is that yours?”, she said, to his surprise, brushing her fingers over the skull’s Santa hat. He fought the urge to snatch it away, and instead gave her a grin. “The rest of him is in the fridge”

“What?”

“Mhm. Blissfully moulding away”

Her eyes widened, but only for a moment. “Experiment, huh? I was told about these antics of yours”, she winked. “Well, if the first trial is successful, you could try replicating it in the lab. Preferably not with human remains. Better than having it done here, though!”

“What lab?”, he pretended to be surprised.

“Bart’s. Started working there a couple of days ago”

Sherlock nodded, his tongue against his teeth. His research had shown that much of course. She was a doctor, so he had expected her to react in the same exaggerated way John did, every time he saw the latest set of body parts, in one condition or other, in 221B. So: rational, able to keep a cool head. Is _that_ why John liked her? As if Sherlock was not _the_ rational and logical being, and as if John wasn’t already living with him!

“Okay, we can eat as soon as Molly gets here -anyone give a hand for the table?” John sighed, looking utterly defeated. The turkey would probably join the rest of the body parts to be experimented on, then. Good. Mycroft begrudgingly shoved Lestrade toward the kitchen, and at his insistence followed definitely because of the waiting pile of mince pies.

“So… Clara-”

“Question… Who’s playing that music downstairs?”

“That’s our landlady”

Clara hummed in nonchalant approval.

“She’s in her sixties!”, Sherlock objected.

“I hope I’ll be like her when I’m that old, then!”

“What-”, he grunted, shook his head, and decided to try a new approach, putting off his best, most well-groomed behaviour. “So… Wanted to ask. Is this serious, then?”

“Mmm… Well… We’ll see! At least… I hope it can be” She actually _blushed_ when saying that, and tried to hide it by taking a sip from her drink.

It felt as if he willingly walked on shards of class with the next words he said. “Very happy for you, then. Must be a big step… After what happened with Harry…”

It was the only time that Clara’s spirits seemed to dampen a little, and she studied the last bite of her mince pie thoughtfully before she replied. “Well, I guess some things are not meant to be”

Sherlock watched her face like a hawk, tried to ignore the knot that formed in his stomach at the words.

“When we met, at uni -John and I were course-mates, at the time- it all seemed… You know. Dreamlike. But despite how it ended, guess I still have not learned my lesson about not falling too hard!”, she chuckled.

Sherlock could feel dread clogging his throat. “Clara, I am delighted, but… I thought there are some things that you must know. I hate to be doing this now, but”, he turned his back to the kitchen, leaning closer to her conspiratorially. “I know how bitter disappointment can be…”, he said ruefully, looking, as forlorn as he could be, into the orange and golden flames of the fireplace.

“What things?”, Clara asked, taking the bait.

“Well… My sources, all exes, will all remain anonymous, as they asked to be so. Some things I have witnessed myself… Please understand that my only wish is to help protect you from another heartbreak”

“Exes?”

“Mmm… And there is a rather large number of them”

“Well, that doesn’t really matter”

“Perhaps not, but they all said the same things…” He paused for dramatic effect, just as John was whining about the candles not being placed correctly, and Lestrade trying to push Mycroft away from the mince pies, because he’d already had three, “and don’t try to hide, I counted them!”

“What things? Sherlock?”

“Well. There were the complaints about the erratic behaviour. About the cheating. About the inability to perform, also, and the ludicrous, lewd requests…”, he watched, trying not to smile to the ears with satisfaction, as Clara’s expression grew serious, and waved a hand dismissively. It was, of course, a bit of an issue that he was making things up, and exaggerating the information he had managed to get into Don Quixote’s giants. “The cherry on top of that Is, of course, what you could call a… porn addiction?”

“The what?”

“Hey, what are you two talking about, all this time?”

Sherlock turned to very innocently smile at a John who had now discarded his apron, and changed into a clean, hideous Christmas jumper with a reindeer’s face on its front. He did not feel an ounce of regret, as he expected Clara to sooner or later request an explanation. And even if John denied all these, and tried to reason with her, the mess created by what would come in just a few minutes now, would ensure it would all go awry. John had lied to him; he was allowed to make a grand exit, even if it meant he would burn out like a match as he did so. Of course, it would be revealed that Sherlock had said a good number of lies. But wasn’t that just the right payback? The beat from the music playing in 221A matched that of his heart.

“John, did you know of all these?”

“Of what?”

“Sherlock has been saying-”

“Out of mere interest, I assure you!”, Sherlock made sure to cut in.

“Something about… cheating and porn and… Did you know of all this?”

John blinked between the two of them for a moment, his mouth an ‘o’ of confusion. “I don’t… think so… No…”, his eyes flicked up at Sherlock’s face, which the Detective had schooled into a cool, unreadable expression. Now. Any minute now!

The doorbell interrupted the silence, and a moment later, Lestrade’s voice saying he’ll get it.

“I don’t like small-talk and such, not that Sherlock would have any reason to lie, but… I don’t… Maybe it’s a bad idea that I came here”

Yes, of course it is, Sherlock thought, already brimming with excitement.

“No, Clara, of course it wasn’t”, John soothed, patting her arm. “I have no idea what he’s been telling you, but-”

“I can’t be so wrong, can I? Not twice. Molly, she… She seemed such a nice and sweet person and-”

“Who?” Sherlock gasped, and nearly tripped over his armchair when Molly’s very own voice said hi from behind him -and indeed, when he whipped around, she was standing at the door, holding two glossy paper bags with wrapped presents inside. Then her eyes fell on Clara and her whole face lit up.

“Oh god…”, Sherlock choked. “She’s _your_ date?”, he shouted, pointing at Clara.

“Um… I… I did not know she’d be here, and um, date, no, I….”, Molly stammered, looking down bashfully.

“John?!”

John threw his hands up. “You left me with no choice!”

“Oh god. No. No no no no, you have to go, both of you, you have to go!”

Clara, utterly confused, looked from Molly to Sherlock and back, while Lestrade mouthed “what’s going on?”, at Mycroft who shook his head and bit into another mince pie, a knowing smirk across his lips.

“Sherlock”, John said. Slowly. Very slowly. “What the fuck have you done?”

He gulped, but when he opened his mouth, only a feeble “I…”, could come out.

The doorbell rang again, and before he could say that they should leave it, it could be carollers or more guests for Mrs. Hudson, or a murderer, something, someone from 221A had already answered.

“Clara?”, a timid voice said from the landing, as a woman’s blond head peered inside. Her cheeks were streaked with tears, and though she was sober, her eyes were bloodshot.

“Harry?”

“Please, can we talk? Baby… I… want you back” 

“Oh son of a-”, John growled. And then there was nothing, no music’s thump or stunned, confused faces, because the lights went out, leaving them all in the dark.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, it's all going to be okay in the end, don't worry!


	20. Home

**My love, he comes to me at night - pt. 7/8**  
*******

Hands fluttering over vertebrae. Sleepy breath like a sea’s rhythm humid over sleep-warm skin. London stirring with the dawn, motors and shouts and traffic-lights’ beeping, lazy buses harrumphing by, the sound of footsteps on the grey pavement, speckled with the first, shy snowflakes, watery and not quite ready yet to settle into snow. There was more commotion today, bubbling excitement beneath the surface, anticipation budding. 

“It’s Christmas Eve…”, the Soldier breathed into his neck. They had fallen asleep on the couch, just as they had tangled up together the night before; chest to chest, heart against beating heart. “When you were gone, there was no time. Time had stopped with you. From then on, I stayed frozen, and the world moved on without me”

He was not sure the words were addressed to him, or if they were a weight that needed to be let out, so he did not interrupt, but merely listened.

“All the… All the secrets I carried, turned into mountains inside me, and I was buried under their weight”

What secrets, he thought, and lifted his head to peer into the indigo eyes that were already there to find him. “It is over, now” He ran the back of his fingers against sharp, unshaved cheeks.

“Before… I never knew if you would listen. If my words would be the burden that would push you away from me. I called you selfish, but I was just as much. Wanted to keep you, no matter the cost, the lie…”

He shook his head no. It had been fear, not malice. Doubt, not deceit. “You had me. You have me”, he whispered, his breath wet in his throat.

The Soldier regarded him as if he were a puzzle, a riddle he was being called to solve, and the Detective’s heart clenched. As much as he’d fought for this moment to come, when he would speak his truth, only seeing this man again, the man who lived with the missing pieces of him inside his heart, was more, so much more than enough. If he was turned away now, if this confession came too late after all… Nothing would hurt more than the pain of separation -and through that he had lived already.

“Say my name. You haven’t…”

“Sometimes I thought you were real too, when you weren’t…”

The hum of London grew stronger under the first rays of grey light, spilling over them with its lazy winter caress. The apartment that was for so long void of life stirred beneath it too, groaning and creaking, stretching and yawning, breathing with the memories of home.

The Soldier’s eyes softened. He had seen the scars, and the stories of fright they hid in their ridges of maimed flesh. It was not a gaze that said ‘I’ll fix you’. It was one that smiled ‘we’ll fix each other’.

“John…” He remembered the stars, then, the stars sought by two pairs of eyes half a world away. The empty faces and deserted streets, the dark hideouts and suffocating clutch of fear. He remembered smiles over tea, and their hands brushing against each other, remembered giggles at the bottom of the stairs, and his heart telling him _you’ll never find another._

And the Soldier laughed, a sound shy and slow to bloom, but real and sweet just like the honey kisses bestowed upon his lips. “Sherlock”, he said. And then “Welcome home…”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One more chapter for this story, yay! And four more prompts to go overall! Can't believe I did this... o.o


	21. Hopes and Fears

**Little Swallow - pt. 7/8**   
*******

**24 th Dec, 19:33**

I need to write this down. If I don’t, I fear I will go mad.

He read it, read my first letter. He read it.

This morning, both envelope and scrapbook were gone. He looked at me, as I was typing today’s blog post, and before he even told me, I knew. His eyes, there was something about them. There always is.

He asked to read what else I wanted to say to him. Which was already all blurted out in a second letter, written the same night as the first one I wrote. That is what he is reading now, locked in his bedroom. And I am waiting here, in the sitting room, for his verdict, my heart about to pound out of my chest.

Before I gave that second letter to him, before this course of action was made irrevocable, I had expected to be calm. I have thought about all these things, have grappled with them, denied them, embraced them a thousand times, over and over. But it’s still like the first time I saw him. I feel sick and euphoric at the same time.

At least, It’s no longer in my hands. He is holding everything in his, now. I hope he will say yes.

I fear that I am asking too much of him.

I hope that I am not.

I fear that he will grow bored of us.

I hope he will want us to be a family. That he will want to be her father. Because he is. He is as much of a father to her as I am, and more.

I fear it won’t work out. That we are both too broken, too worn out. The things that happened after his return, they should not have happened. He hurt me, and I hurt him, and from some point our lives seemed to have turned to parallel lines. We should not have ended up here, not in this way, not with the burden of the last eighteen months still on our shoulders.

But if it hadn’t been so, we would not have Rosie. And I do not regret Rosie, even if I regret everything that led to me having her.

I fear what kind of person this makes me.

I fear that when my daughter learns, she will see me as nothing better than my own father was. How will I tell her that I killed her mother and bear no guilt for it?

I hope that this will all go away soon. That we’ll be looking back at this time in ten years’ time, and we’ll be laughing because all went well in the end, and we were idiots to think it wouldn’t.

I fear that instead in ten years’ time I will be alone again.

I fear that I will lose him.

That the next time an assassin will be standing over his bleeding body, gun aimed for his heart yet again, I won’t be there on time.

I hope that when that door opens, he will appear with a smile.

That he will say yes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One more chapter to go for each story!


	22. Feast

**The case of the Christmas saboteur - pt. 8/8**  
*******

"Sherlock, was this you, too?” John's voice was eerily calm, confirming his anger. Slow and pedantically clear, it was the same voice he used when Sherlock had crossed the line -and now, it seemed, he had crossed many. Sherlock inched away from the meagre light the fireplace still shed onto the room.

"It's a power outage", Mycroft looked up from his phone, entirely unaffected by the atmosphere in the room, or what had just taken place. "It has affected the whole neighbourhood, I am afraid"

"Bloody hell”, Lestrade exclaimed. And then, as if he had just remembered, “The turkey?”

"Sod the turkey", John growled.

"Wait", Clara's voice interjected. Sherlock saw her rubbing a hand to her temple out of the corner of his eyes. "You” she pointed at him, “thought I was _John’s_ date. That's why you said all that?”

"Obvious", Mycroft sighed.

Clara ogled at him for a moment, and then shook her head as if in realisation. “But _why_?”

"Who is Molly?", Harry sniffled, unbeknownst to her saving Sherlock from a very embarrassing answer. He had expected things to go awry, but not quite this way, and not quite as fast.

"Me. And I was... Not aware... I would have a date, tonight". Molly's polite, soft voice responded. She must have shaken her hands in a gesture of ignorance, because the paper bags she was holding rustled with the movement.

Clara looked towards Moll’s direction with a wounded look. "Neither was I…"

“Yes, right, abut that…”, John rubbed the back of his neck. “Be right back, give me a moment -Harry, don’t move”

The commotion and murmuring downstairs grew to fill the gap the roaring music had left in its wake, as the power did not seem to be keen on returning and Mrs. Hudson's guests no doubt stumbled in the dark. John, busy with finding and lighting candles in the kitchen, could be heard swearing every time he knocked over or knocked into stuff. At last he returned with two white, metallic lanterns, each small enough to fit in his palm. He shoved one in Mycroft’s hands, and then the second into Sherlock’s. John’s gaze, when he stepped back, made shivers to rise up his spine.

The light was not enough to let them see significantly more, but Sherlock could now discern the frowns on everyone's faces, Clara and Molly's eyes screwed hard onto him so that their gaze almost hurt. They all stood in what was vaguely a circle, eyes darting from one to the other. Sherlock felt dread, cold and prickly, press against his diaphragm.

“So…” John said, trying to scan every face in the room. “Things have not quite gone as planned. I tried to host a normal Christmas dinner, for once in my life and…”, he rubbed his eyes with both palms. “Harry, you were never supposed to be… Here and…”

Sherlock felt regret, hot and bitter, pulse trough him. Donovan and the officers’ words rang in his ears. _Freak. Better stay at home if you don’t like Christmas. A favour for the rest of us._ They’d been right. They’d all been right, in their idiocy. How could he ever have believed that John meant what he had meant, that he would ever see him as anything more than he was? He took a took a step forward. “I caused this mess. It was all my fault. My… stupidity. John has nothing to apologise for. He did his best to provide a happy atmosphere only to face stupid, needless hurdles from a… a very, very Bad person. A freak. Clara, Harry… Molly… I’m… Sorry”, the word twisted his tongue, but he forced it out regardless. He was then left empty, and their gazes only made any other words he could have said die on his tongue. Lips pursed into a thin line, cold spreading though his body, he muttered a wet “excuse me” as he rushed to his room and closed the door behind him.

Heavy with humiliation, he leaned against the door and tried to breathe. The white lantern with its candle’s flickering light was still clutched in his hands, and he looked at it, dejected. It was lonely and small, and all he had left. He raised his gaze, saw a small streak of moonlight creep in from the half-open window, and slowly made his way to it. This was the worst Christmas, and it was so because of him. He felt hollow, and transparent, and so empty that his chest convulsed.

“Hey… Can I come in?”, the door-handle creaked, and John’s head peered in. When his eyes spotted Sherlock they frowned. “You okay?”

Sherlock turned his body away and nodded. “I’m fine”’, he pushed out, in the most dismissive and haughty tone he had, scrambling for the tattered remnants of his pride.

“Sherlock, are you… Are you crying?”

“No”, he freed a hand to brush at his cheeks with indignation. It was wet when he pulled it away.

“Hey, hey... It’s okay…”

He heard John’s footsteps as the other man walked in, and the door clicking shut behind him. “It was brave what you did. That you apologised”

Sherlock shook his head noncommittally. So what if it had been? It changed nothing. And it certainly did not change _him_.

_Freak._

“And it will be okay now”, John was saying as he approached him. “Lestrade is talking to Harry, she’ll be okay. Molly and Clara will survive this. Not sure if the turkey will, but…”

“Go away”

“What?”

“Go back to the normal dinner and normal people”, a sobbed cut the last syllable in two.

“Sherlock… You are not abnormal”, John said with conviction. “Or… bad. Or a freak”

Sherlock dared steal a glance towards him.

“What you did was not good, yes. But it doesn’t make _you_ not good” John’s hand patted his arm, and then locked, and gently _held._ “Why did you wreak havoc though, hm?”

“You said… You said you were bringing a date”

“Mmm… That is not exactly what I said. I said there would be another date. Did not say it would be mine”

“Why did you not tell me it was Molly’s then?”

“Because, you rascal, you cannot keep a secret to save your life”, John chuckled.

Sherlock responded to the sound, turning to face him.

“And before you ask… I only wanted to do a good deed, of sorts. I was happy, I was having a great time with you. Molly had told me she’d met Clara a few days ago, when Clara came to St. Bart’s for her interview. And they both talked about the other to me in such a smitten way that I wanted to give them a chance. That was all. I mucked it up. I know you need honesty, and I left you in the dark. I should have trusted you and explained. I am sorry”

“So… You’re not angry?”

“Not really, no. Maybe a little bit. But… I am sad that I confused you so, and that this anguished you so much that you had to set up this whole ‘destroy Christmas dinner’ operation. This dinner was about you, Sherlock”

“About me?”

“About you. And our home. And us. Did I not tell you? Every reason I want to celebrate is this git with the bouncy curls and posh manners”

“I thought… When I misunderstood that you had a date that…” John’s thumb brushed over his arm, and the grip tightened in reassurance. “What you told me… Had not meant quite what I’d thought it had meant”

“And what did you think it was?”, John coaxed with a smile.

Even the tips of Sherlock’s ears burned. “That, even though this notion is not rationally sound, I was… Special to you” He wanted to close his eyes, seal them tight, upon saying the words.

“Of course you are. Of course you are special to me”, John breathed, as if unable to believe just how much Sherlock did not know. “Hey… Look at me?”

He did, and found that John had stood on tiptoes, and that both his hands had grabbed hold of the lapels of his suit jacket, and that he was pulling him close. Sherlock’s breath hitched, and his hands gripped the white little lantern even tighter as their lips brushed, and locked, his heart booming and twisting and bursting into a myriad of fireworks, and lights, and the infinity of the stars beyond.

“Okay?”, John asked when they separated, a hand still over Sherlock’s collarbone, as if to keep him there, or perhaps to keep him from collapsing. Sherlock could only nod in response, any other logical train of thought having frozen to static in his mind. His lips tingled, still.

“If this night had gone to plan, that’s how I would have ended it. And with these”, John grinned, producing two white strips of glossy paper from his back pocket. He held them up for Sherlock to read. “That’s what I had to go out to get, that night. Pulled in a favour from that guy we had solved the opera case for, Matheson? You thought I had a date because of the shoes, did you not?”

“How did you-”

“I am not a fool, Sherlock. And may I remind you, I am the one person with both the blessing and curse to always hear your every deduction. Some things have stuck”

Sherlock’s eyes kept reading the calligraphic font in disbelief. They were tickets to the Royal Box of the Royal Albert Hall for the upcoming, New Year’s Eve production of the Nutcracker ballet. It took some breaths more to realise that this was his present that he was staring at.

“So?...”, John asked, and shifted his weight to his other foot.

Sherlock forced himself to look, truly look at him; John’s lips were pursed, his feet were firmly planted but he could not keep still, his brow was furrowed, and he kept clearing his throat even though he was saying nothing else. He was _nervous._ _John Watson_ was _nervous_.

Which could only mean… John wanted him to want this.

All of this.

Kiss and present both.

Both!

A sound too close to a squeal left his lips as he tried to kiss John again, and the other man had to steady him lest the lantern fall down, so that Sherlock was nestled in John’s arms as they kissed, flickering candlelight’s lantern held safe between their torsos.

“You git”, John murmured against his lips, when they both needed to breathe. “You crazy git”

Sherlock bit his lip as he smiled, shyly nudging John’s head with his own. He could still feel his heartbeat louder everywhere John had touched, as if the contact had unlocked something within him, pulling it to the surface. “Do we have to go back?”, he whined, a note of apprehension in his voice.

“I think we must” John cupped his face. “Hey… It’s okay”

“But….” No power. Not much left of the dinner. And a ruined festive atmosphere. “How?”

“Do you trust me?”

He did. They walked back, Sherlock letting John walk ahead, but when they reached the kitchen, John twined their hands together, for all to see. Mycroft trilled his “obvious” again, and Sherlock wanted to punch him and then Lestrade, who dared agree, and added that there was a bet going round at the Yard, which he’d just won.

Harry, calmed after a conversation with Clara which had been taking place all this while, was picked up by a group of her friends. Molly handled the situation in a rather civilised way, even though she berated John for arranging a secret date in this manner and Sherlock for being so inconsiderate in inviting Harry. No one objected, so Sherlock did not, either.

Mrs. Hudson’s guests started leaving too, as the party was apparently cancelled, after all, and their goodnights and “pity”s and well-wishing filled the corridor and stairs for a rather long while.

They lit more candles, salvaged whatever they could from the dinner John had made, and gathered on the kitchen table for dinner. Conversation was not exactly flowing at first, but as questions were beginning to be asked, from all directions, hows and whys and whens, a casual, friendly atmosphere returned. Apparently, Molly and Clara’s good chemistry seemed largely unaffected by the incident, and the mutual understanding between the two only grew, which significantly helped keep spirits high. Sherlock’s stomach began to ease. He had not ruined _everything_ after all.

Of course, once it was established that Sherlock had done what he’d done out of jealousy, and that the _thing,_ as Clara so elegantly put it, between him and John had never been one-sided and yet they both had been idiotic enough not to see it, the teasing was endless and merciless. Naturally, any hope of forgetting the embarrassment of this night was soon thrown out the window. Sherlock was not very sure he was happy about that.

“All right, all right”, John grumbled, after being repeatedly pestered by Lestrade. “I’ll make a toast. But I am not standing up. So… I know tonight was …”

“Rather eventful”, Mycroft provided, his voice slurred and bored.

“Yes. That”

Sherlock looked down. The novelty of it all still throbbed and filled him with both fear and awe. Too many questions were forming in his mind, begging for answer, for reassurance.

John, as if he knew, brushed his hand under the table, and Sherlock’s gaze lifted to see the indigo seas as they told him“But I wouldn’t have it any other way”

“Sentiment?”, Sherlock asked, but his tone had no edges or thorns this time.

“Sentiment” was the reply, and Sherlock smiled. It hit him then; every Christmas from now on, it would be a remembrance of this one night, and what it had led to. It would be them, through and through, laughing over the memories together. Flesh-eating butterflies be damned, perhaps Christmas could be salvaged for him too. Hadn’t John said it? It wasn’t about Christmas at all…

“So… To my very own Christmas saboteur” John said, and begrudgingly or genuinely, all glasses around the table were raised. The butterflies buzzed, and Sherlock’s chest bloomed with warmth.

John cleared his throat. “I think this one will go on the blog, actually”

“John…!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can't believe I will not be writing this story anymore. Wow.  
> Anyway, I hope you enjoyed!


	23. Nightmare Before Christmas

**My love, he comes to me at night - pt. 8/8**  
*******

I wake with darkness on my heels and pain in my heart, shards of life stuck in my hands, shards of a sapphire blue gaze, the sky itself bloodied at my feet, fallen like a star, burned and broken.

I cry out without breath, feel my own hands clutching my throat, begging it to gasp for air, my lungs burning, liquid.

There’s a touch on my shoulder, an another over my struggling chest, calming, pushing, then easing, and again, to stimulate breathing. I calm, feel my heart flutter under his palm and settle, as if nestling right into his hand.

He holds me close, tucks me into the curves and planes of his body, cradles me until I am not choking on tears and the air is not a weight on my chest. I lose track of time. I keep track of his breaths.

He turns on the light.

He knows which nightmare it was. His brow is furrowed, his eyes drowsy with sleep still clinging on their edges, russet curls a dishevelled halo about his face. He’s soft and beautiful and alive and _human_. When I reach to bring him closer, to kiss his eyelids, his cheeks, his nose, his lips, he does not ask why, but curves the warm mass of his body around mine and presses me closer until I don’t know where he ends and where I begin.

Now that I know why the rope-like scars of his back are there, why a shadow of fear still haunts his steps, something in me has changed. At first my love was a desperate and wild, ugly thing, tinged with confusion and anger; I sought from him answers that he could not give me, because I did not know the truth, I was not ready to hear it. And he gave me the time I needed, not once complaining, not once leaving my side, the magnitude of his sacrifice unspoken. It was this selflessness that showed me _how_ he loved me, if his return showed me just how much. 

He shifts, and seeks to look into my eyes, worry both mellowing and sharpening his features. “What do you need?”, he whispers.

And I know.

Tonight marks one year since he came to me.

I tug at his sleeve and he follows, through a sleepy, creaking 221B, peaceful in the dark and swathes of moonlight.

The pages upon pages of writing are locked in the drawer I had left them, musky with the smell of old wood and dust. I show him, give him each and every one, their handwriting messy and shaky, a maze of the thoughts of a mind trapped in a single moment and being unable to move on, until he returned to tame it back to life.

I see his eyes as he reads, his hands shaking as he moves from page to page, letting them fall to the floor at his feet and scatter like the feathers of a great flock of birds that flew away.

“I dreamed of you”, I say. “And each time I’d put the dream to words, the words to paper” A story without end, a hope beyond hoping. Ever clinging.

He raises his eyes to mine, and I can see the tremor in his lower lip, the guilt in his eyes. I hand the last pages to him, and smile. “My last dream was not a dream at all. It was a pity not to write it”

I watch as his smile blooms to mirror mine.

“I asked you for a miracle”, I start.

“I heard you”, he completes, and takes a step closer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think I will miss this story most of all of them.


	24. Peace

**Little Swallow - pt. 8/8**   
*******

_John,_

_Forgive me for resorting to a letter, too. I am aware that prolonging your wait at this moment is positively cruel, but you of all people know how easily words can fail me. They must not fail me now._

_In the introduction of your letter, you wondered whether what you were about to reveal was needless pressure endangering our friendship, if it was you asking of me something which I did not want to give._

_In all honesty, your words did press me, but not quite in the way you think. They made me realise that I was not the only one that has been blind to the truth before his eyes, afraid of reaching to grasp it. While I am not usually one to bemoan the past, the five years we have lost are my deepest and most hurtful regret._

_You went on to wonder about my wishes, my expectations. Wanting to know them, to know me. John, while I understand that your feeling of not knowing all of me stems from my decisions and hesitation, I am tired of my obstinate ways, which have serve only to give me a false security. Keeping you at arm's length is something I no longer wish to do not after your locks unlocked the truth for me (and which, upon reflection, I was driven into doing because of fear or doubt in the first place). So, I will make the start now:_

_I wish for your and Watson's happiness and wellbeing._

_I want whatever you choose me to be for you, for both of you, will add to this wellbeing and happiness._

_And I long to have no more regrets, no more what ifs, no more wasted chances. I long for honesty, and transparency._

_You wrote that you want me, and that even though you want all of me, you will take however much of me I am willing or able to give to you, and Watson. And to this, my only reply is that you have me. In any and every way. You always did, and you always will. There is nothing I would not give you._

_You wrote that in asking this you feared if a life with you and Watson would be exciting enough, fulfilling enough, able to last enough. John, a life with you would be enough. Not more, not less. You seemed to believe that I am restless, that I will soon grow bored. And while my mind may never stop wandering, never stay in one place, what my heart needs, and has never had, is peace. A state of equilibrium. A steady purpose. John, through everything we have been through, you have been my focal point, my conductor of light. I am already devoted to you, and Watson. Irrevocably, wholly, permanently._

_I know what you must be thinking. Why am I not rushing out this door, then, why am I rooted on the spot, shaking, reading and re-reading these few lines?_

_And you'd be right. It is rather silly, I must admit. I am being rather inelegantly and exceedingly sentimental._

_But when I walk through this door, my entire life will change. It is a moment that dwarfs me with is magnitude, its impending emotions, its meaning. And I fear I am not ready, John. That I am not ready, or enough, to face it. For when I take that step, and ending will be set in motion. It will be a leap into the unknown. I can hear you, pacing, waiting. If my heart could beat through my chest, it would. Even now, logic bids me to be cautious. But I don't want to. I'll take the leap, and this time, I know, beyond all logic, that you will catch me. Because there are three more words to say, and when I say them for the first time, I want them to land onto your lips._

_I love you. I love you. I love._


End file.
